Here I am getting tattooed. As you can see below, I am grimacing. And digging my nails into my arm. This shit HURTS. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't. But as I have said before, it is completely worth it.

A weekend at home. Time to write.

Work has been really busy over the last month. Never a dull moment.

There is another pregnant woman at work. I had a dream the other night that I was pregnant and in the hospital. I was waiting and waiting. There were no labor pains. I was getting impatient. Interesting.

To celebrate Kelley’s birthday in the beginning of July I went with Kelley and two other friends of hers to Arnold, a small town on Highway 4 in the Sierra’s. It was a great, very relaxing weekend. We ate, drank, talked (and talked and talked and talked), slept, ate and drank some more. It was hot as Hades up there. I loved it. For some reason the heat doesn’t bother me.

Last weekend I was in Tahoe, Soda Springs. It wasn’t as hot as I expected. And the water in Ice Lakes (Serene Lakes) felt very cold. It wasn’t hot enough out to warrant getting into freezing cold water. The company was great. Again we did lots of eating, drinking, talking, and fucking around. On Friday my friend John and I took our mountain bikes out for a spin. I hadn’t been on mine in years. As we made our way out the dusty access road, I kept thinking, “I am going to have to climb back out of here.” But it was well worth it! And getting out took about half as long as I expected. The next day, Saturday, when the others arrived, we drove down the same road and did a little hike along a ridge. We had planned to find a private lake to take a dip, but couldn’t find one that wasn’t on private property. Next time. I have more information now. I have been told that most of the land out there labeled “private property” is actually public land. In any case, after our easy hike we drove back out and over to Ice Lakes, which really are icy right now. I got some sun and walked back to the house. On Saturday night we actually had dinner before it was dark out! That never happens up there. We had a feast of grilled (some charred) veggies and chicken, tortillas, corn on the cob, refried beans, cabbage salad, and red wine. It was all delicious. For dessert I baked “no pudge fudge” brownies – Trader Joes special! So yummy.

Thursday I finally had my 10 year old, very faded tattoos re-colored. I have a beautiful new pink lotus and a blue and green butterfly. Getting a tattoo feels something like a red-hot butter knife digging into your flesh. The closer it is to the spine, the more it seems to hurt. The black outlines are particularly painful. Fatty deposits don’t seem to temper the pain what so ever. So, don’t ever let anyone tell you it doesn’t hurt. But it is all worth it! I am now going through the icky dry, scabby faze of healing. I have been putting cream on it three or four times a day. I think it helps a little. I am happy to be though the painful periods.

Adventures with Burt the baby pigeon.

Rascal caught him. I imagine it wasn’t much of a fight, because the poor thing could barely walk let alone fly. He probably fell out of the tree at a very opportune moment for Rascal. Of course, wanting to share his prize with his Mommy, he brought Burt (who didn’t have a name at that point) into the house, and dropped him in the dining room.

Pearl was all worked up into a fluff-ball state. Her tail looked like a squirrel's. She was in the most animalistic state I have ever seen. She hissed at me, threatening me when I got too close to her bird. How it became her bird, when Rascal was the one who brought it in, I will never know.

When you grab a cat by the scruff of its neck it really does become paralyzed, even with an adult cat. When I got them both safely behind doors, I was able to check out Burt a little more extensively. I could see that he was a baby or fledgling. He was all gray with long, skinny, little yellow feathers sticking out all over. His beak was not fully developed. He had a hurt wing, which was a little bloody, from where Rascal had bit into him. After pacing the floor for a minute, I thought I should try putting him outside to see if he could fly. I grabbed a dish-cloth, which was the suggestion of one of the CWWs I work with the last time Rascal brought in a critter, the possum. I gently threw the towel over him. He was relatively easy to pick up; he didn’t even try to bite me. He had a really cute squeak, not a coo. I took him out to the front porch to see what he would do. But he just stood there, looking very confused (can a bird really have expressions?) As I went toward him he scooted back. He was about to fall off the balcony. So, quick thinking, I got him outside in the back balcony, which isn’t accessible except by the back sliding door. Or by other birds, as I was soon to find out. I put him in an old wooden wine box, standing up on end, sitting in the corner. I was hoping that he would heal and then fly away on his own.

After about a day I went and bought birdseed for him and gave him a bowl of water. This is stupid, but I don’t think I would have thought of water; that was Paul’s suggestion. At some point, after becoming attached, I decided the pigeon needed a name. I named him Burt. Come to find out: Burt, of Burt and Ernie, has a love of pigeons. Who knew?

The cats didn’t figure out Burt was on the balcony right away. When they did figure it out, the sliding glass door became like their own personal TV, with their own personal reality TV show. Burt really didn’t do much. Regardless, the cats sat, glued to his every move. It took him about a day to figure out that the birdseed was to eat and the water to drink. That Burt was a shitting machine! There was bird shit all over the bottom of box, getting stuck to his tail feathers. Yuck.

For the most part, Burt didn’t do much besides eat, drink, shit, and sleep. After he had been out there a few days, my friend Kelley and I were sitting in front of Rascal and Pearl’s TV. Burt got up, walked slowly across the edge of the balcony, and sat down on the corner. He sat there for 15 minutes, watching the world go by, got back up and walked back to his “nest.”

After he had been on the balcony about 5 days, I began to worry. I didn’t see him walking around and he seemed to always have his wings out in different awkward positions. Almost like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. Big birds started coming and stealing his food. He hid behind and under the plant shelf. He seemed terrified and very unhappy.

After calling a number of veterinarians and wildlife rescue organizations, I finally found one in Oakland who agreed to take him. I carefully placed him in a box with a towel for padding. He stopped squeaking only after I put him down. I drove up in to the Oakland hills to a house on the side of a steep valley. The front drive was littered with cages of all sizes and shapes. A young woman came to the door with a baby squirrel on her shoulder. As we stood in the dining room, he tried to jump over to my shoulder, but she stopped him. I think she may have had him wrapped in her robe the entire time I was there, preventing him from leaping around. I looked out to the back balcony because I heard a commotion and there were three fawns! They were super cute, white speckled, baby deer about the size of medium dogs. It appeared they wanted to come in and play. She told me if she let them in they would jump all over us. I wasn’t daunted. Apparently the Oakland Police Department brought them to her a few days before, having found them abandoned. She also had two hummingbirds in a cage. One had just learned to fly. She offered to give me a tour the next time I am there. I figure that I will definitely be seeing her again, given the hunting nature of my cat Rascal.

I called back a few days later to see how Burt had made out. He is fine! Burt was taken to Ohlone Wildlife Rescue in Newark and is now flying with a flock of rescued pigeons.

I am so relieved to know he is okay and now learning how to fly with his own kind!

Rascal and Pearl are the cats who reside in my home with me. To call them “my” cats would be stretching the truth. The reality is, I am their human. I am here, at their beck and call. I feed them, give them water, and provide a lap when needed. Pearl and Rascal balance each other well. You would never guess they are sister and brother. They don’t look anything like each other and their personalities are about as different as you can imagine.

Pearl is a sweet, little gray tabby girl with beautiful green and amber eyes. She mostly hangs around the house, eating and sleeping. Occasionally you will find her outside taking in a spot of sun or saying hello to the neighbors. Pearl is initially shy, but once she knows you she is very demanding of attention. If you are sitting down you are a sure lap, made just for her. Sometimes she follows me from room to room, hopping up on waist high objects (bed, couch, chair) so she can get a pet while you are walking by, all the while chattering away. She is a bit of a whiner. The sweetest thing is when she is on your lap, purring, and gazing up at you adoringly. Of course she has an ulterior motive: to have you scratch her little chin. But I also honestly think she is checking in with you, keeping the love going.

Rascal, on the other hand, is your archetypal, adolescent, tomcat. He is a muscular, sleek, black boy cat. He has about 5 white hairs in the middle of his chest. His eyes are pure gold. Rascal generally exhibits an air of disinterest, unless there is food involved or he wants something from you (food). Rascal is mostly an outdoor kitty. Well, let’s just say he doesn’t spend most of his time in the house. I am not exactly sure where he goes when he is not here. I do know that ALL of the neighbors know him and that is no exaggeration. I live next to an apartment building and all the front doors face out. I can see Rascal making the rounds to each of the 4 floors, visiting everyone. I asked a guy in the building I had never met before if he knew Rascal. He said, “Oh YES, we know Rascal very well over here!” So, it may be that Rascal is couch surfing throughout the night, every night. He usually comes home for a scratch and some food.

About two or three months ago I had a serious scare. It was at the same time as the wet cat food scare. Rascal was looking really run down and tired. I came home from work and there was a note on my door from a neighbor who is particularly fond of Rascal. She stated that he seemed listless and not his usual peppy self. A few days before I noticed that he was home, begging in the kitchen. I even made a comment that someone must be feeding him wet food because he wasn’t happy with the crunchies I was feeding him. At that point I had never fed R&P anything but dry food. The night I received the note getting up the stairs was slow and laborious for him. He came in and drank down two entire bowls of water. He wouldn’t eat the crunchies, but eventually I cracked open a can of tuna and he managed to choke down some of that. I was going to take him to the vet the next afternoon due to issues at work. I talked to my mother who talked me into taking him to pet emergency right away. I am so glad I did.

Taking a pet to the emergency room is probably as traumatic as going to a human emergency room, if not more so. At the Kaiser ER, most of the really dramatic, potentially traumatic stuff either comes in the side door or is behind a closed door. At the pet ER you see every animal, hear every story, and see exactly what is wrong. I saw at least two dogs who were either dead or quickly approaching death. It was really sad. A very drunk couple brought in a huge Airedale who must have weighed a ton. The man was too incoherent to help his partner carry the dog, and she was obviously having a hard time managing his weight. One little poodle-like dog came in covered in blood and the family said he had lost a fight with a pit bull.

Rascal was diagnosed with kidney failure. The outcomes for kidney failure in cats are not great. Often the failure is too far along to be reversed and you have to eventually put them down. Sometimes it can be reversed enough to maintain them with medications and a special diet. In rare occasions, if you treat it aggressively and quickly, the kidney can go back to basically normal functioning. Of course I had to prepare myself for the worst-case scenario: spending a shit load of money trying to save my cat and then having to put him down anyway. Well, Rascal was really lucky. He must have at least 9 lives. After about 4 days in the hospital, he came out with a clean bill of health.

Rascal is back to his old antics. He is at home a bit more than he was before, because I now feed them wet food. Twice a day, like clockwork he is home to lap up the disgusting stuff and beg for more. Sometimes I cave. He did lose quite a bit of weight (2-3 lbs) when he was sick, so he could use a little more meat on his bones.

About a month after his return from the hospital, we had a fun little adventure. I woke up in the middle of the night. I was hearing a “thunk, thunk, thunk.” It was a muted sound coming from one of my closets. I got up and opened my bedroom closet to let out the cat (probably Pearl) I was sure I must have locked in there. No cat. I went to the hall closet and opened it. No cat. I must be hearing things. Back to bed, sleep. Rudely awakened, again. Damn cats. Lights on. There’s Pearl on my bed with me. Oh, and there’s Rascal under the bed snoring away. (Yes, actually both cats snore!) Bedroom closet, open both sides: nothing unusual. Hall closet, open one side: nothing. Open the other side: there I see what looks like a pink, thick tail. Oh shit, there’s a rat in my closet! No, I didn’t scream. I stood back a little. What I thought was a rat, turned around and started hissing at me. It was a baby possum! It had a little white body with a black neck and a pink snout with distinctive little pointy teeth. Really it was quite cute. Pearl is quite interested by this time. I have to push her back into my bedroom. Rascal is still sleeping. I shut the closet door. The last thing I want, besides a possum in my closet, is a possum running around my condo! As I was trying to shake off sleep and figure out what to do with baby possum, I started putting things together in my mind. The day before I had found the pillow I had in the closet had a bit of poop in its pillowcase. I thought it was odd, but figured one of the cats had left a mark before I put the pillow in the closet and I just hadn’t noticed. Very unlikely, but anything is possible. So, how long had this guy been in the closet? Long enough to poop and pee all over the shoulders of most of the coats in the closet.

I could hear my neighbor downstairs watching TV so I called her and asked her what she thought I should do. She suggested calling the Piedmont Police. They have nothing better to apparently. I called them, and even though I don’t live in Piedmont (which they were keen to point out to me as if I didn’t already know), they came with a snare and grabbed the little guy. I was amazed at how flat he was able to get trying to get away from the snare. So, there he was, attached to the bottom of a long pole. I asked where they would take him and the older cop said, “I’m just going to take him out to the street.” The younger cop said flippantly, “In the morning he’ll just be road-kill.” What an ass-hole. In retrospect, I wish I had thrown a towel over him and taken him to a wildlife rescue organization. He would have been better off getting checked out and living in a place away from cars, people, and especially cats! In any case, I haven’t seen any baby possum road-kill. Nor have their been any possum visitors to the condo.